


Sun Shining Through

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Take Me To The Stars [8]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Flirting, Post-Episode: s11e08 The Witchfinders, Wet Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-05 15:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16813573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Clara is not one to tolerate people dripping all over her diner floor. Not even Time Ladies who've survived witch trials.





	Sun Shining Through

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt:  
>    
> _Thirteen arrives home to Clara, dripping wet after the events of The Witchfinders._
> 
> Cute shit ensued.

“You’re dripping on my floor.”

The Doctor can’t see Clara’s face - she’s looking away from her, tinkering with the till, and if it wasn’t for her words, she’d have wondered if the immortal had seen her at all. She takes a step forwards hesitantly, shuddering at the sodden feeling of the inside of her boots pressing up between her toes, and places her elbows on the counter, leaning forward so that rivulets from her hair drip onto the polished aluminium top. She knows how much time Clara puts into making sure the surface is immaculate, so this tiny act of rebellion seems an adequate way to tease her partner. 

“Am I?” she asks, mouth quirking up into a grin as she shakes her head and showers down a miniature rainstorm. “How absolutely unreasonable of me.” 

“It is unreasonable,” Clara attempts to deadpan, but her mouth twists into a smile she can’t conceal as she reaches over and ruffles the Doctor’s hair. “Why are you all wet?” 

“Witch trials. Also northern rain. Mainly the witch trials. I got dunked.” 

“Ah. Let me guess, you’ve discovered that being an intelligent woman is seen as somewhat more threatening than being an intelligent man?” 

“Something like that,” the Doctor grimaces at the recollection of how she was spoken to, feeling a flash of shame to think that she may have spoken to women in the same way in the past. “How did you deal with all the... well, the general being-patronised-by-men thing?” 

“It’s me,” Clara looks over at her then, quirking an eyebrow. “How do you think? Badly.” She pauses, giving the Doctor a quick once-over from head to toe. “Dear god, you really are soaking. Doesn’t your TARDIS still have heaters?” 

“Yes, but the opportunity to drip on your floor was too good to pass up.” 

“You’re incorrigible.” 

“No, I’m soggy.” 

“So, get out of those clothes.”

“Here?” the Doctor feels her cheeks burn at the mere suggestion, but nonetheless she peels off her coat and drapes it over a nearby stool, in readiness for an ensuing disagreement or further instructions. The coat hasn’t been dunked, thank god, but the rain of Bilehurst Cragg has permeated the fabric and it’s been clinging to her skin uncomfortably for the entire journey here, an unwelcome second skin hindering her movements. 

“Yes, here. I’m not having you dripping all over the inside of my TARDIS. She’ll sulk.” 

The Doctor hesitates for a moment and then slips her braces from her shoulders and peels off her striped t-shirt in one fluid movement. It clings to her skin and ruffles her hair as she yanks it unceremoniously over her head, but then she’s free, and she dumps the dripping garment on the counter beside Clara, raising her eyebrows once in a silent look that conveys: _see? You really thought I wouldn’t._

“And the other one,” Clara says teasingly, biting her lip with barely-suppressed glee that the Time Lady has risen to the challenge. “Go on.” 

The Doctor hesitates for half a moment and then strips off her long-sleeved t-shirt too, with considerably more difficulty, before standing in the tepid air of the diner in just her bra and still-dripping trousers. She wants to shiver, but she feels that might be admitting defeat, so she reroutes some of her circulation to raise her core temperature and puts her hands on her hips in an attempt at defiance. “How’s that?” 

“It’s a start,” Clara muses, smiling innocently, and the Doctor knows what’s coming next. “But I still think you’re going to be leaving puddles all over my TARDIS. I think the trousers need to come off.” 

The Doctor meets her gaze, mischief and mirth sparking between the two of them before she slowly unzips her trousers and lets them fall to the floor, stepping out of them and depositing them on the counter-top beside her t-shirts in a sodden pile. 

“Happy?” she asks, leaning over the counter and smirking at her partner, who has taken on a look somewhat akin to a cat that’s got the cream. She heels off her boots and socks, lifting them up and setting them down beside her clothes, adjusting to the cool feel of the linoleum against her bare feet. She feels oddly exposed, especially in contrast to Clara, demurely clad in her blue dress and neat white apron, but she tries to ignore that feeling and focus on the fact that she has taken on the dare and won. 

“Very,” Clara purrs, her pupils dilating, and the Doctor has a good idea as to her intentions. “I mean, the rest will need to come off too, but that might be something to do in a more private setting... like our room.” 

“Yes, it might,” the Doctor sticks her tongue out at Clara and then says casually: “Is now a good time to mention that the team are outside, and starving hungry?” 

The colour drains from Clara’s face in an instant, replaced by a look of abject mortification. “Oh, my god,” she mumbles, the colour rushing back and turning her cheeks a fiery maroon as she speaks. “Are they? God, I’m sorry... I didn’t...” 

“They’re in my TARDIS,” the Doctor tells her, patting her arm reassuringly and resisting the urge to laugh. “I sincerely doubt they’ve seen anything they shouldn’t have from there. Don’t worry.” 

“I...” Clara’s wicked grin returns in the face of the Doctor’s certainty. “Well, even if they have, I’m not sorry. You are rather devilishly good-looking. I reckon it’s witchcraft, what you do to me.” 

“Well, you can dunk me in the bath later. Have you got a uniform I can borrow? I think Yaz’s jaw might actually dislocate if she sees me like this.” 

“Sure,” Clara steps back from the counter and crouches, rummaging through a box before reappearing with a dress and apron that match her own. She holds them out, but as the Doctor reaches for them, she snatches them back. “Nope.” 

“Wh-”

“Price of uniform: one kiss.” 

“God, you’re shameless,” the Doctor leans over and kisses her, smiling against her mouth as she does so, and then seizes the clothes from Clara’s hands before she can change her mind. “Right. Uniform, then dinner with the team, then bath. Deal?” 

“Deal.”


End file.
